"I don't like them pictures he paints, though, do you?" observed another, more critical than avaricious.
"Naw!" was the scornful reply, also in unison.
From which it may be gathered that Mr. Brandon Booth was not cherished for art's sake alone, but for its relation to Mammon.
The object of their comments was making himself agreeable to the lady who was to be his hostess for the next few days. Leslie, perhaps in the desire to be alone with his reflections, sat forward with the chauffeur, and paid little or no heed to that unhappy person's comments on the vile condition of ALL village thorough-fares, New York City included.
"By the way, Sara," he said, suddenly breaking in on the conversation that went on at his back, and thereby betraying a secret wish that was taking shape in his mind, "what have you done with the little red runabout you had a year or two ago?"
She started. "You mean—"
As she hesitated, he went on. "It would come in very handy for twosome tours."
"I disposed of it some time ago, Leslie," said she. "I thought you'd remember."
"Oh,—er—by Jove!" he stammered in confusion.
He remembered that she had GIVEN it away a day or two after that awful night in March, and he recalled her reason for doing so. He twisted the tiny end of his moustache with unnecessary vigour—I might say fury. It was a most unhappy FAUX PAS.